The Masters' Chronicles 008- Power Through Transformation
by Fainmaca
Summary: Lady Philippa Eilhart goes to investigate the ancient, abandoned tower of a renegade Mage, seeking power, but finds a lot more than she bargained for. Based on characters and events from the first International edition of the Witcher School LARP in Poland.


The ancient, crumbling tower sat precariously on the cliff edge, mere feet from tumbling down into the churning waters below. Beyond, the heaving waves of the Gulf of Praxeda had turned inky black, flecks of cold white appearing here and there as a large wave tumbled along on its course while, overhead, a cloak of clouds the colour of charcoal stretched from one horizon to the other, obscuring any light that the moon or stars might have provided. Wisps of mist clawed at the land, drifting about in ragged tatters that shrouded the cliffs, the shoreline and the tower looming over it all in a pallid, ethereal light. The end result was an unnerving, ghostly glow coating every surface, a sight that would have put fear in the hearts of many men. The figure that now approached the tower, wrapped up in a heavy robe that shrouded their frame, was not one of these men. They approached boldly, a staff held in their right hand, its tip a large crystal that glowed a cold, pale blue. They lifted the staff, allowing the crystal's glow to light their way ahead.

Few dared come here, even in the brightest daylight. The tower, long abandoned, had a reputation among the more superstitious of the peasantry. Tall tales were rife in the nearby villages, one of a heifer that was left sterile after spending a night on the nearby moors, another of crows flying in strange patterns around the tower itself, still another of a ghostly child prowling the cliffs, looking to scare any wanderers it found, chasing them over the edge of the cliff to their demise. The figure, picking their way along the neglected pathway towards the tower, had heard all of these tales and more. Not one of the rumours concerned them.

The figure stalked up the pathway until, at last, they found themselves in the shadow of the tower, tilting their head back to look up at the rough stonework. The tower surged up into the sky, a talon of dark grey stone scraping at the underbelly of the clouds above with slate the colour of the deep ocean covering the conical roof that capped the structure. At the tower's base, a small set of broad stone steps ascended to a nondescript wooden door. Two stone figures flanked the door, armoured knights holding large stone broadswords. An aura of intelligent wariness clung to their carved forms, the sense of a tightly coiled spring, ready to lunge into action. The figure approached carefully.

As the hooded figure placed their foot on the first step leading up to the tower, the air of malevolent scrutiny surged in power, weighing down upon the intruder with sudden ferocity. The statues did not move, but one could have been forgiven for thinking that the carved contours of their armour, the depth of the shadow within their stony helmets, their general demeanour, somehow became more menacing without moving at all.

The figure paused, taking the sudden shift in energy in stride. They looked from one statue to the other and, after a momentary consideration, reached up to pull back their hood and reveal a cascade of golden hair, tumbling down across delicately built shoulders. Piercing azure eyes gazed up at the statues, framed by firm cheekbones and neatly maintained eyebrows. There was a firm set to her jaw, not cruel, but certainly not forgiving. Lips the colour of the last sliver of sunlight vanishing behind the horizon pressed together in a narrow, grim line. She was beautiful, there was no denying that, the kind of beauty that the poets of old would try to capture in their epics, or the legendary artists of Touissaint would attempt to pay homage to in oils, in watercolours, or in clay. Many had tried, but none as yet had succeeded.

This was but one of the many faces that Lady Philippa Eilhart had worn during her life, the gifted Redanian sorceress having magically adjusted her appearance many times over the decades to suit her whims. For now, the golden locks and striking blue eyes suited her, but she could just as easily turn her hair fire red or as black as midnight as any ordinary woman might choose a different gown to wear. But, while her current guise fulfilled her needs, she would keep it.

The moment the sorceress' pristine features were revealed, the energy from the statues changed once more. The pressure on Lady Eilhart's mind receded, the statues losing all sense of menace and becoming simple, inert stone once more. A rising sense of welcome filled the sorceress' mind as she continued to climb the stairway, an aura of recognition. She reached the top of the steps without further issue. As she approached, the wooden door opened, shuddering a little as its warped frame fought against the energies that compelled it. Eventually, the twisted door had moved sufficiently to allow Philippa to step inside, ducking her head a little to avoid the bowing lintel of the doorway.

The moment she stepped inside, the sorceress noticed an immediate change in the air. The sounds of the churning sea beyond the tower deadened as the air grew thick, almost heavy. Even through the still-open doorway, the sounds from outside were almost completely muted. Warmth filled the air, countering the icy chill of the mists outside. Philippa had to take a moment to notice and admire this. The wards that the tower's last occupant had put in place still stood, attending to even the small conveniences of warming the tower's interior and blocking out the more intrusive and distracting sounds from outside. After all this time, such a feat was impressive. She paused for but a moment, closing her eyes as she reached out, sensing the magical energies that surrounded her, a web of spells and cantrips filling the crumbling spire.

A sudden shift in the energy caught her attention, a bright point in the arcane web. She turned her focus to it, feeling a presence shifting, awakening, approaching. She opened her eyes to see what she had thought to be an inert pile of fallen masonry, broken furnishings and twisted metalwork shifted, rising to assume a form that, while enormous and misshapen, had a roughly humanoid outline to it. The hulking mass loomed to a height of eight feet, pulling itself together to look like a broad, hunchbacked man. It turned what counted for its 'head', the crushed remains of a clock mashed together with an old candlestick, to face the sorceress.

At first, Philippa was taken aback. The rumours she had heard of the tower's occupant had not told of him possessing the power needed to bind an elemental into a physical vessel, creating a Golem. Then again, the information she had been able to find on the reclusive old mage was scarce at best, even more so considering the unsanctioned nature of her visit here. If anyone in the College were to find out...

She cast the thought aside, making ready to attack the lumbering shape as it took a couple of ponderous steps towards her. Perhaps the latent magic in the tower was manifesting in unexpected ways animating lifeless material. Glittering energy danced across her fingertips' the first few syllables of Hozar's Lesser Unmaking on her tongue before the shape leaned closer, a flame suddenly flickering to life above the candlestick that formed one of its 'eyesockets', and a deep, booming voice thundered forth from the strange creation.

"Lady Philippa."

The voice was strange, a combination of vibrating metal, grinding stone and splintering wood, all held together with a magical echo. The beast had no 'mouth' to speak from, but the voice undoubtedly belonged to it, rolling out from somewhere deep in its bosom. Philippa could hear each syllable shivering their way down into her very core, a discomforting sensation to say the least. Still wary, she released the arcane energy gathering in her palm, looking to the creature with renewed scrutiny. It continued, taking another step closer.

"My master did not expect the College to ever send a representative here." The hulking creation said. "Not after the unceremonious way he was expelled from their ranks. But he always hoped that one of your number would see the value of his work. And now you are here, with many questions, doubtless."

"I- yes." Philippa was rarely one to find herself stumbling over her words, and quickly regained her composure, straightening as she stood before the shambling mass. "Yes. I have come to learn more of your master's works."

"Good." The hulking thing turned away, looking to a flight of stairs that reached upwards, further into the tower. "He will be pleased. Allow me to take you to his study."

With that, the creature began to climb the steps. Philippa, still a little unnerved by whatever this new creation was, followed reluctantly, delving deeper into the sanctum of the rogue mage who had been known as Brellismere Hanmarvyn.

~o~0~o~

Philippa climbed the steps, watching the back of the magical construct warily. The lumbering shape ascended the staircase clumsily, clearly unsuited to moving in this way. Occasionally, it would stumble, awkwardly shaped feet struggling to fit on each step.

The young sorceress found herself fascinated by the construct. She looked it over, allowing her deeper senses to reach out and analyse the creation. She could feel the magic holding it together, a web of energy that bound every piece of it together under a single purpose. And yet, the power that pulsed within it felt strange to her. She'd never felt such power before. It felt... wrong. An inversion of the energies she normally used in her own spells, as though the basic principles behind the spellwork that powered the construct operated on different rules to those she had been taught in Aretuza. There was something about that bright aura of energy that felt sickly, corrupt. The Redanian sorceress wondered if maybe this was an example of the research that had led to Hanmarvyn's expulsion from the Brotherhood.

As she followed the creature, they slowly made their way to one of the tower's upper floors. Finally, they emerged into a large room, filled with all kinds of equipment. Some of it, Philippa immediately recognised, a megascope in the far corner, some sapphire resonance cylinders on a table, all kinds of glasswork. Still more equipment was completely alien to her. A large, almost coffin-like box made of brass and steel plates as well as a towering pole in the centre of the room that looked like a misshapen lightning conductor, dozens of rubies adorning the small metal 'branches' that sprouted from it. Against one wall, a vast collection of books weighed heavy on a series of oaken shelves, while the opposing wall was occupied by an array of... specimens. Large glass jars held the bodies parts of dozens of different creatures. Skulls, organs, limbs, entire bodies... Philippa even recognised the heart of a Manticore, perfectly preserved. A rare enough find in any condition, the value of the organ must have been in the thousands of orens.

At first, the sorceress was so absorbed in examining the lab that she did not notice the single figure who shuffled about in the centre of the lab, scuttling between a lectern that held a large book and the largest of the tables, where the elaborate glassware hissed and bubbled with a variety of different substances. Then, he slammed the book shut with a snap, drawing her eye with a little jolt as he began shuffling towards her, a warm smile on his lips.

"Lady Philippa Eilhart!" The voice creaked with age, his wrinkled features creasing deeply around his smile. "It must be what, ten, fifteen years since we last met? The banquet at Loc Muinne, yes? The Council was celebrating the ascension of young Glevissig from apprentice, if my memory serves right."

"Your mind is sharp, as ever." Philippa smiled thinly, her expression tightening just a little as she focused herself.

She'd spent many years training herself to offer no clues as to what thoughts passed behind her eyes, to keep her expression unreadable, her emotions a mystery. The fact that the old mage remembered her after even so passing a meeting was not lost on her. In the circles the pair moved in, it was important to know every detail possible about one's rivals, one's enemies and, should one choose to be so reckless as to indulge in the luxury, one's friends. She had no doubt that the mage's shrewd mind had already recalled every useful detail about her that it had available to it. Her hopes that her relatively unknown status at the time of his removal from the Brotherhood would give her an edge in any conversation swiftly faded.

"It would seem that the reports of your demise were greatly exaggerated." She said, carefully playing one of the verbal cards from her hand.

"The Council believed me to be dead?" A dry, dusty chuckled escaped from the old mage's lips as he shook his head, before releasing a disappointed sigh. "So that means that you're not here to learn from my findings. The Council sent you here to pick over my holdings, like crows over a corpse." He caught himself, turning a regretful eye towards the young sorceress. "The Council, I mean. Not you, young Eilhart. I'd never be so crass as to compare you to a carrion bird like that. I am sure you are simply doing what is required of you. The holdings of a mage cannot be allowed to fall into the hands of the regular folk, and all that."

"You can understand why the Council might be concerned." Philippa replied, neither confirming nor denying the older mage's thoughts. It was better to let him jump to his own conclusions, and keep her own knowledge close to her chest.

"Its a wonder they care at all." The mage muttered bitterly. "After all, they made clear that they wanted nothing to do with my work. 'A forbidden art', they called it! Close-minded pratts, all of them!"

Philippa was a little surprised to hear the old magus talk so openly and so disdainfully about his former colleagues. Perhaps his years of isolation had made him more loose-lipped than was the norm in the ranks of the Brotherhood. Or perhaps his advancing years had simply given him a different perspective on the subtle and underhanded ways that were common among the Magi of the world. Hanmarvyn caught her eyes watching him, and a wry smirk tugged at his lips.

"Not used to hearing someone talk about those uptight buffoons in such a way?" He asked. "I learned a long time ago that the games of the Magi are not worth indulging in, young Eilhart. They waste time and energy that can be better expended in learning and discovery."

"If I may, then, what was it you discovered that made them so keen to remove you from our ranks?" Philippa chanced, again counting her words carefully.

"The Council didn't mention it, and yet they still sent you here?" An eyebrow rose curiously, and Philippa cursed herself inwardly for such an obvious blunder. Hanmarvyn quickly dismissed the question, though. "Probably counting on you not grasping the full extent of my work, or sticking to their rules and not delving too deeply into it. More foolish of them, I suppose. Even an old relic like me can see that you have the hungry mind of a true scholar, eager for new knowledge."

He shuffled back towards his table, waving a hand for the young sorceress to follow.

"You were taught from the very beginning about the many different schools of magic that exist. Transposition, divination, elemental manipulation and the like. But there have always been those schools of magic that are declared 'off limits'. The Council, in their narrow view, completely restrict the practice of such magic. A complete waste of perfectly good knowledge! I fought them tooth and nail to stop their ban on research into the necromantic arts. After all, if we were to fully plumb the depths of the death art, who knows what we might uncover?"

The old mage began to pace, hands gesturing wildly as he spoke. The further he plunged into his diatribe, the more animated he became.

"Perhaps we might find out what happens to spirits that move on from this mortal plane, all those ghosts that the Witchers banish in the course of their work, all the people who die and never rise as a restless geist. We only have the speculations of holy men and the rantings of madmen to go on. If one were to properly research the matter, delve deeper into it, who knows what we could discover!" he paused only to take a short breath. "And this says nothing of the practical applications. How many lives could be saved if we used the dead for menial, dangerous tasks? To fight in wars, to venture into places no mortal could go? The true value of such studies are utterly without limits!"

Philippa had to admit, the elder mage's enthusiasm was infectious. She could feel her own mind beginning to turn over possibilities, the allure of new discoveries tempting her. She managed to rein in the hunger that stirred in her, focusing on the matter at hand.

"Forgive me for asking," She interjected before the mage could continue, hoping to keep him grounded with her words. "but with the Council so firmly shutting down on such research, why is it that you have not faced any repercussions for your work?"

"In truth? Because they believe me to be nothing more than a cantankerous old man, more trouble than I am worth." Hanmarvyn smirked at her. "I am old, young Eilhart. Older than most that sit on the Council, save maybe for Raffard, or Alzur. Our spells can extend a mortal life, but they do not grant immortality. Eventually, we all must face the grave. They were hoping that I would gracefully reach my end in exile, and cease to be a risk. So, after my exile was declared, I went to ground, hiding in a few different places. Novigrad, Vizima, some backwater village named Boggevrieg. At one point I lived in a herbalist's hut on the edge of the Brokilon, until at last I came here, and raised this tower to perform my work in. Seeking me out, hunting me down, it was not worth their time. I was out of sight, and they could go on their merry way, lording it over the young ones that still gave them the authority and power they craved." He paused, looking over to the young sorceress with an unreadable glint in his eye. "Until now, it would seem. Now that word of my continued survival will emerge, I wonder how many more like you will flock to this tower, eager to either end my work entirely, or to claim a piece of it for themselves?"

Philippa held back from answering, feeling as though her words would have little effect on the old mage's bitter mood. Instead, she turned her attention to the items on his table, looking them over with curiosity. Strange pieces of metal, twisted into all manner of shapes, lay scattered across the heavy oaken table. The occasional scrap of parchment detailed some kind of schematic or other, giving the random array a form of organisation and order. Hanmarvyn caught her gaze, a knowing smile crossing his features.

"Fascinating, isn't it? Most of this knowledge was thought to be lost after the magus Zennmert's tower was destroyed in dragonfire. Its taken a great deal of time, but I have managed to piece it together, one fragment at a time."

"Its rare to see a mechanism so complex." Philippa reached out tentatively, fingers brushing one piece of polished brass. "This looks like some kind of containment vessel, yes?"

"Correct." The approval in his voice was warm, encouraging. For a moment, Philippa was reminded of her early years in Aretuza, the various tutors there urging her onwards, allowing her to dig ever deeper into her studies. "An Ofieri energy trap. It can absorb the latent power present in nearby leylines, serving as a potent power source for any ritual work. I use several of them to funnel sufficient power into this-"

He turned, waving an expansive hand towards the contraption in the centre of the room. Philippa stepped over, carefully examining the strange creation. It was tall, well over seven feet in height. The central pillar was cast from a silvery metal she was unfamiliar with, dozens of small branches splitting off from it, clawing upwards in a haphazard array. Each branch held a single blood-red ruby, about halfway along its length. The light played across the surface of the gemstones in a strange way, unsettling to the eyes. Curious, Philippa reached out to touch one, hesitating only long enough to glance to Hanmarvyn, who nodded his assent.

The gemstone was warm, but not hot to the touch. instead, where it touched the sorceress' outstretched fingers, a pleasant heat spread through her skin. Some kind of power lurked inside the gem, pulsing in response to her presence. An electric tingle passed through her flesh as her fingertips brushed against the device. She reached out with her other senses, probing at the mechanism with her mind. She couldn't begin to decipher its purpose, or the true method in which it operated, but she was fascinated by the way the arcane energies in the air moved around it, were changed by it. Her hunger for understanding grew.

The warmth was spreading from her fingers. In seconds, it had reached her elbow, and continued moving. Alarm sparked in the young sorceress' mind as she realised that, with every muscle that the heat spread to, she was finding it more and more difficult to move. Already her fingers were growing numb, their sensation overridden and replaced by the clinging, heavy warmth. She turned from the device, noting with not a little worry that Hanmarvyn had moved away from her and the device, placing the table between himself and her. The mechanisms of the table were beginning to shiver, glowing runes appearing across their surface. Hanmarvyn watched her carefully, his features having grown less friendly, a more sinister light entering his eyes.

"What-" Her lips fought against her, suddenly heavy and clumsy. "What have you-"

"I'm sorry, Lady Eilhart." The cold tone of his voice contradicted his words. "Please understand, this was never anything personal. But I have need of one such as you to continue my work, and I could not rely on you to willingly offer yourself."

Philippa could feel her muscles clenching, stiffening as whatever magical ward had been activated at her touch slowly encased her in a veil of energy. The suffocating warmth pressed down on her, pinning her in place. With all the effort she could muster, she raised her right hand, the fingers tracing a simple spell, a magical attack that leapt towards Hanmarvyn. Before the bolt of arcane energy had even travelled halfway towards the mage, the construct that had greeted her lumbered forward, thrusting itself between her and her target. the spell struck the creature, washing across its torso harmlessly as the magical energies soaked into its body, seemingly absorbed by it. Behind the creature, Hanmarvyn shook his head.

"Its no use." He explained. "My automaton here can absorb any attack you can throw at him. He's empowered by such energies, only growing stronger. There really is no escape, young Philippa."

A sickening feeling tugged at the sorceress' stomach as the magical ward completely encased her, the last few muscles locking in place. She stood there, paralysed, helpless, as Hanmarvyn and the automaton approached.

~o~0~o~

The first thing that registered in Philippa's mind was the rough, hard wooden surface she lay upon. As consciousness slowly returned to her mind, more and more details crept through her senses. The chill air that brushed at her flesh, the acrid smell of sulphur, smoke and other alchemical components filling her nostrils, the low moan of the night winds echoing somewhere nearby. The sorceress suppressed a groan as her muscles awoke, shudders of pain running through her body. Stiffness seized her, along with a weight and weariness she had not felt in a long time, not since her first days of training in Aretuza. Not since she'd learned to-

Her eyes snapped open, sudden awareness of what she couldn't sense flooding her mind. For the first time in decades, perhaps even centuries, she could not feel the currents of magic around her. The strength and vigour those energies normally gave to her was gone, and the flood of knowledge and sensation that she was accustomed to had dried up. She sat up, looking down at her hands. A pair of glimmering silver shackles bound her wrists, with runes circling them, wrought from a metal that possessed a strange, purplish hue. Philippa's stomach knotted as she looked at the runes, recognising the metal all too well. Dimeritium. A metal infamous for its ability to dampen or even block a magic user's abilities.

Philippa tried to summon up a blossom of power, anything that her mind could grasp at. Mentally, she railed against the shackles, wrestling against them, but the barrier to her abilities remained strong, unbreaking. With an effort, she could feel her powers, but they remained faint, muffled, almost as if locked behind a thick doorway. In her mind's eye, the shackles glowed with blinding light, each rune a star circling around her wrists. She released a frustrated, strained grunt as, with no other options available to her, she pulled at one of the shackles with her bare fingers, to no avail.

"Ah, you're awake. Good."

The voice snapped Philippa out of her frantic struggles, and she finally looked up from her wrists. Hanmarvyn stood close by, watching her with a triumphant smirk. It was only as she looked to him that the sorceress finally began to take in more details of exactly where she was. She must have been on one of the tower's upper floors, a small circular room with windows looking out over the ocean. Winds could be heard whipping by, and Philippa imagined that she could feel the stone tower shifting and swaying just a little in the breeze. The young sorceress had been thrown into a cage, rusted iron bars encircling her. Normally, such an enclosure would have had no chance of holding Philippa, but without her magics, the sorceress had little that she could do against such an obstacle. She looked to the leering mage, a scowl twisting her normally unreadable features.

"What is the meaning of this?" She demanded, her tone unshaking, powerful.

"Isn't it obvious?" Hanmarvyn chuckled. "You're my prisoner."

"You dare?" Philippa blustered. "When the Council finds out-"

"But they won't find out, will they?" Hanmarvyn's smile turned even more cruel, the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes growing deeper. "After all, they don't even know that you are here."

Philippa remained silent, looking down at her hands with a fierce glare. The mage let out another dry chuckle.

"You young ones are all the same. So hungry for power. So full of ambition. So easily manipulated. It was a simple thing to put out the rumours of my demise, lay out the bait for any youngsters with grand dreams of prestige and authority to come investigate. All I had to do was wait."

"Why?" Philippa asked. "Why lure someone here, and risk exposing yourself and your work to the Council?"

"I was not afraid of the Council finding out what I was doing." Hanmarvyn shrugged. "After all, did you think, even for a moment, about going to your elders with what you had learned?" Her silence was all the answer he needed. "No, of course not. You saw a chance to expand your own influence, so you leapt at the opportunity. Like I said, so full of ambition. Why risk letting some other mageling come along and take the knowledge that you desired for yourself? Or worse, having the Council come along and use what they found here to further entrench their own position, thereby further removing yourself from gaining a seat among them?"

"That doesn't fully answer my question. Why lure anyone here to begin with?"

"The answer is simple, really." He began to pace before the bars of her cage. "My work, my research, requires power beyond the capability of any one mage to channel. Necromancy is a constant battle against the natural order of things. Once a spirit's time in this realm has passed, forcing it to remain is similar to turning back the flow of a river. It can be achieved for a short time, but eventually the pressure to allow things to take their natural course will build to immense levels."

Hanmarvyn gestured, and Philippa became aware of the construct that had originally greeted her, watching them both in silence. It stood in the shadows against the far wall, little more than a statue in the darkness.

"Baerne here was my first breakthrough. He was the local baron's firstborn, the favoured son of the land and in line to inherit his father's title and lands. Until an ill-fated hunt, where he found himself impaled on a boar's tusks. His father took him to me, begging me to save him. I needed only one glance at his ruined body to know that even Raffard's most powerful conjurations would not be enough to save him. He bled out on my operating table, his spirit slipping through my grasp. So I began to work in my own way, over the course of many weeks. Through the use of an inversion of Tyllon's Earthing Ritual, I returned his spirit to his body, giving me the time I needed. I managed to prevent the rot, for a time, and grant Baerne the ability to move under his own volition. Eventually, I gave him back his voice."

"I don't understand." Philippa interrupted. "If he was once a man, then why does he look like... that?"

Hanmarvyn turned at her gesture, regarding the hulking mass of stone and wood.

"Yes, well... no procedure is perfect, especially not on the first attempt." He shrugged. "The decay of death is hard to overcome. In Baerne's case, the body could not hold together without a considerable investment of magical power on my part, power that I could not afford to spare as I moved on to deeper, more profound works. So, I began to replace the weaker parts, and enabled him to scavenge for pieces by himself. Stone and metal will last far longer than flesh and bone, and he needs only a small amount of my power to remain tethered to his physical form."

The mage paused, giving his creation a long, ponderous glance.

"Of course, when the baron saw what had happened to his son, he was displeased. Disgusted, even. He couldn't see past the outward appearances, understand exactly what I had achieved for him. I was cursed, banished, my name defamed. So, I did the only thing I could, to protect my reputation and be able to continue my work in peace. I sent Baerne to strangle the baron in his sleep. Now, I no longer have to fear the baron sending any of his men to interfere with my work here, and Baerne is a loyal servant, able to retrieve components for me as they are needed, and fend off any intruders that pose a risk to me or my research."

Philippa glanced to the construct again, its misshapen visage unreadable. She had her doubts that anything of the original man remained inside its hideous shell, in spite of Hanmarvyn's seeming insistence to the contrary. The mage seemed to sense her thoughts, glancing to his creation.

"Yes, I admit, the form is crude. But thankfully, since then, I have perfected my techniques. Now, all I lack is power. Energy to maintain my creations while I continue to hone my art. That is where you come in, my dear." His lips parted, yellowed teeth gleaming behind them as he smiled. "You are a potent Source of magic, young Eilhart. Ideal for my needs. Those shackles will allow me to siphon off your power, and fuel my needs for many months."

The sorceress glanced down at her hands, impotence and frustration squirming in her gut. The shackles were not just a way to contain her power, they were actually stealing it from her, twin parasites devouring her from within. Something sparked, deep within her. A powerful fury, burning fierce enough to energise her entire frame. She leapt to her feet, surging towards the bars of the cage. Behind the mage, Baerne moved slightly, his posture taking on a much more threatening air even as Hanmarvyn remained utterly still, not a muscle on his face twitching. Philippa clutched at the bars of her prison, knuckles white as her hands shook, although she would have been hard pressed to say whether the tremors came from rage or fear.

"When I get out of here..." She seethed, her voice shivering almost as much as her hands. "...I will pluck your beating heart from your chest!"

Hanmarvyn leaned closer to the bars, almost within reach of Philippa's grasp. He raised a hand to stroke the back of one of her hands, clenched around the iron bar, his smile taking on a patronising twist. She flinched, but refused to back away from him, determined to show no fear. When he spoke again, his voice was low, taunting.

"Oh, my dear child..."

It was only then, as his ice-cold fingertips connected with her flesh, that the sorceress felt the absence within him, the chill that his touch inspired in her. At last she noticed the cloudy light in his eyes. The sickly air that hung around him.

"I'm afraid my heart stopped beating quite some time ago. That is why you will be so instrumental to my work. Through your sacrifice, I will keep on with my work, and achieve such greatness." He backed away, the triumph in his gaze only further frustrating the young sorceress. "Now, get some rest, my dear. I will need every ounce of your strength for the days to come."

With that final taunt, the mage turned, leaving for the tower's depths. In moments, Philippa was alone, save for the looming bulk of Baerne, watching over her with an unblinking, unfeeling stare.

~o~0~o~

All was silent in the tower, save for the odd moan of an errant breeze whisking past the crumbling stone walls. Up in the highest room, Philippa hunched in the corner of her cage, shivering from the chill that pierced her bones. The bare stone of the room was no place of comfort such as she was accustomed to, and the rough wooden cot that had been provided for her gave the sorceress little in the way of respite from the spartan conditions.

The sorceress couldn't be sure how long she had been there, locked away in the top of the tower. After a while, the faint light that shone through the windows as night turned to day and back again had all begun to blur together. Some days, Hanmarvyn would come to see her, although it was usually just to ramble on about his work. Most of the time, the only company she would have would be the taciturn Baerne, the construct watching her almost constantly, although sometimes the construct would be called away by the mage, or would venture out to find her something to eat.

The sorceress' stomach turned at the thought, remembering the first time the automaton has returned with a 'meal' for her. A seagull, its neck broken, the flesh hurriedly seared over an open flame. A few scorched feathers remained stuck to the poorly cooked meat, their ashes sticking to Philippa's tongue as, desperate from hunger, she devoured the meagre offering.

A wretched sensation crawled through the sorceress' mind. She could feel the shame rising within her. She knew she was better than this pathetic display, and resented Hanmarvyn with every fibre of her being for reducing her to such a state. Hatred, dark and primal, swelled in her heart. Were it not for the shackles on her wrists, she'd...

She had to pause at that. It was no use, pondering on what-ifs and maybes. While the dimeritium runes remained around her wrists, she was powerless to do anything about her situation. A tide of apathetic defeat washed over her as she slumped against the bars of her cage.

The heavy thumping of Baerne's enormous feet echoed up the tower long before the hulking construct lumbered into view. The automaton shambled towards the cage, causing the sorceress to flinch back. The door to the cage creaked open, a metal bowl brimming with water placed carefully on the floor just inside, before the construct stepped back, sealing Philippa within her prison once more. With that, he turned, and left, clearly required for some other task by his creator.

Philippa scuttled across the floor towards the bowl, her thirst driving her with frenzied speed. She scooped the water with her grime-encrusted hands, slurping at it with relish. The cool water slipped down her throat, delicious upon her dry, cracked tongue. Heedless of the rivulets that dribbled down her chin, or the indignant posture she had to assume, she continued gulping down the clear, icy liquid until her thirst was slaked, only then pausing for breath.

As she pulled back from the bowl, she finally caught sight of her reflection in the water that remains. Slowly, she raised a hand to brush at her cheek, her fingers shaking.

Creases and wrinkles marred her normally perfect skin, the first signs of age. Bags gathered under her eyes, while deep shadows lurked beneath her sharp cheekbones. Her lips were cracked, dry, a pale colour replacing their normally vibrant red. Her hair, once golden and flawless, was now a mess of knots and tangles. She ran her fingers through the strands, feeling the wiry coarseness. As she lifted a few locks to dangle before her eyes, she imagined that she could see some shimmers of silvery grey flash in their midst.

Horror twisted in the sorceress' gut. It was true, she'd come to rely on her power to control her visage, managing to enhance the image she presented to the world. But this... this was something different from her glamours merely fading. As Hanmarvyn drained her reserves to power his work, he was slowly consuming her essence, draining away everything that made her the woman she had become. If this continued, she would soon become a withered shell, an old crone fading into dust in the crazed magus' tower. Bile welled in her throat at the thought.

Iron suddenly flashed in her eyes, a firm determination arising in her mind. No, she would not find her end here, like this. She controlled her own fate, not anybody else.

The sorceress' eyes began to rove around the cage, looking for something, anything, that might help her. Her gaze alighted on the remains of her last meal, the plate that still held the bones and feathers of the seagull that Baerne had fed her. Bones... and feathers. A memory flickered through her mind, a scrap of knowledge she had gleaned once on a visit to the druid circles that were scattered across the continent.

She spared a furtive glance towards the stairs, knowing all too well that her captors could return at any moment. She didn't have much time. With hurried fingers, she tipped over her bowl of water, allowing the precious liquid to spill across the grimy flagstones. She ran her fingers over the curving rim of the bowl, feeling the metal for any bend or imperfection. The worked tin was thin, soft, easily dented. She found a part of the rim that felt thinner than the rest, and wedged it between the bars of her prison, twisting it with all of her might.

Her muscles, admittedly never her greatest asset considering her line of work, were weak from malnutrition, making any movement a struggle for her. She strained for a long, silent moment, until finally the bowl began to buckle and bend. The metal twisted until, just as black spots began to dance in her vision, the smooth tin finally split and tore, exposing a sharpened edge. Panting, the sorceress flexed the metal until she could access the sharp edge, bringing it up to her shackles. She found the edge of a groove that held one of the dimeritium runes. She jammed her makeshift blade into the rune, straining to lever the dimeritium symbol out of its socket. After a few false starts, her makeshift tool slipping and slicing open her fingertips, she finally managed to lever one of the shimmering silver symbols from its socket, the metal shape landing on the stone floor with a quiet tink.

As the tiny fragment leapt free of its mounting, Philippa felt the magical energies of the world flow back into her consciousness. The remaining runes still hindered her abilities, but now there was a crack in the binding, a tiny opening through which she could once again drink from the powers that had once sustained her. New energy flooded her body, her mind awakening once more to the world around her. A small smile crept across her lips as she stood, gathering the remains of her last meal. She had work to do.

~o~0~o~

The sorceress hunched in the corner of her cell, hands twisting frantically around a small bundle of what, to the untrained eye, would have looked like a lump of trash. A few splinters of wood, torn from the frame of her bed with fracturing fingernails, had been arrayed in a crude effigy, the barest outline of arms, legs and a body. Fibres from her own dress had been carefully unravelled, tying the simple shape together.

It had been some hours since she'd pried the rune from her shackle. She'd spent that time hungrily reaching out to the powers that circled around her, only able to draw a trickle of energy into herself past the damaged shackles. Still, like a dying man in the desert, she drank from that small source greedily, slowly regaining some of her vigour.

The darkening evening outside had given way to night, the glow of a crescent moon spilling through the tower's windows. As the light faded, Philippa found her work growing more difficult, but still she pressed onwards, knowing that her time was limited. Baerne would return soon, and his watchful eye was sure to realise that she was up to something. She redoubled her efforts, a razor-sharp focus on the task before her.

A wave of grim humour stole through her mind. If any of her colleagues could have seen her in this state, examined the crude effigy she was creating, she was sure that she would be the laughing stock of Aretuza. And yet, without access to her full abilities, she had to make do with whatever resources were at her disposal.

It was an unusual technique, one she was not overly experienced with, but she had observed some of the druids in the northern circles practising it, and understood the basics. If she couldn't draw the magic into herself, shape and control it under her own will, then she could use the tiny fraction of her abilities that had returned after damaging the shackles to instead channel the energies surrounding her into the effigy, a totem of sorts. Normally, a druid would do this to imbue a staff or pendant with some kind of aura, to promote good health or encourage the growth of a nearby field. However, they would normally have better control over their powers than she did in her weakened state, so the procedure carried far greater risk for her. If she nudged the energies in the wrong way, or failed to make the magics sustainable for at least a short time, then she could find herself in great peril. Worse still, once the magics had been channelled, they would be let loose, free and wild. Out of her control. If the arcane energies shifted along an unexpected path, or took on a life of their own, she would be powerless to stop them.

The sorceress steeled herself. It was a risk she needed to take. She couldn't stay in that cage for a second long. She would not. Even if it meant a disastrous magical mishap. She tried to push away those thoughts of what might happen she failed, burying them deep beneath her resolve.

With a final twist, the figure was complete, ready. Philippa could already feel the magic beginning to pool around it, the shadows of her intent. It had been decades since she'd done any work with a poppet, having long since moved on to grander, more elaborate styles of magic. Regardless, the memories of the methods came back to her easily enough, the sorceress rarely allowing a potentially useful piece of knowledge to be forgotten.

As she finished tying off the thread pulled from the skirt of her dress, the young woman reached up to her scalp, plucking three long strands of gold from there. Quickly, she gathered a few feathers and a single wing bone from the carcass of her last meal, the wretched seagull that Baerne had caught for her and used the hair to bind it all to the poppet, muttering a few black, powerful words under her breath. Then, suppressing a shudder, she retrieved her broken bowl and, with slow, deliberate precision, ran the jagged edge of metal across her thumb, summoning forth three fat droplets of ruby-red blood that spattered on the effigy. The thick, warm fluid mixed with the other components to stick together, fusing it all into one mass. A final nudge from the sorceress with all the mental effort she was able to muster, and the crude spell was cast.

Philippa placed the poppet on the floor, stepping back a pace and taking a deep breath. She could feel the energies beginning to coalesce, a thick clot of power swelling around the tiny figure. She braced herself, waiting for the spell to reach its tipping point…

When the first wave of power hit her, it drove all of the air from her lungs, forcing the sorceress to sag to the floor with a pained wheeze. She knelt there for a long moment, black spots reeling in her vision, before another surge of power struck her with brutal force. Every muscle in her body contracted, crushing in on themselves and twisting at her bones and joints. Pain swelled inside her, igniting a ferocious fire. Philippa groaned, trying to keep from screaming out loud. Inside her, vital organs shifted and turned, inspiring yet more agony deep within her.

An itching sensation flared up in her skin, a fire that rapidly spread to cover every inch of her flesh. She managed to open her eyes, looking to her hand long enough to see the very texture of her skin changing. Where once her flesh had been smooth, flawless, now it was becoming coarse, fragmented, something akin to thick fur sprouting there. Her fingers seemed to be melting together, merging into one long, misshapen span of flesh. Her arms were growing longer, too, the shoulders shifting along her torso as, with a terrible snapping sound, her elbow reversed itself. The rough contours emerging on her flesh were now becoming more defined, extending into long, thin feathers, grey in colour.

The pain was excruciating. Philippa could feel her heart clamouring against her ribcage, the shifting bone and muscle pressing in on her lungs in a way that prevented her from breathing. She opened her mouth to scream, but couldn't draw in the air needed. Slowly, inexorably, her jaw twisted, her lips becoming hard, inflexible. Something was sprouting from her face, the stiff protrusion of her lips merging with a lengthening, twisting nose.

A clatter of falling metal caught her attention, drawing her glance back to her wrists. The shackles, having held her prisoner for so long, now slipped freely from her narrowing, twisting wrists. She could feel her awareness of the magical world, her connection to the arcane, come flooding back, but in her current state there was nothing that she could do about it. Now way she could focus long enough to muster the energies necessary to protect herself.

The sorceress fell, her legs twisting underneath her awkwardly as she tried to curl up in pain. Panic began to set in. Maybe the spell had gone wrong, maybe this was how she would perish. The tightness in her chest only grew as, with a start, she realised that she was shrinking, the rest of the cage becoming quite large around her. As her form continued to twist and change, the remains of her dress swallowed her up.

Seconds passed, then minutes. All was silent in the cage. Then, after a seeming eternity, something shifted inside the tattered pile of fabric that lay on the floor. Something leg out a small, pained noise. Something strange, something not human, emerged.

~o~0~o~

Hanmarvyn stormed up the staircase, rushing into the upper room with in a flurry of rustling robes. Any other man might have been left gasping and wheezing by the ascent, especially one of his age, but he was past such concerns, one of the benefits of his 'condition'. Behind him, the lumbering behemoth that was Baerne stomped up the stairs as quickly as his bulk would allow.

The ripple of shifting magics was impossible to mistake, the tremor of arcane manipulations. A spell had been cast, he was sure of it.

The mage raced over to the cage, his expression twisting into one of fury as he noticed the absence of his prisoner, in her place only a pair of discarded shackles and a pile of tattered, red rags, all that remained of her clothes. No sign of Philippa herself remained, and no clues as to how she had escaped her confinement. Hanmarvyn paused, reaching out to study the energies still pulsing within the cage. Possibly a teleportation spell? Those were notoriously difficult to stabilise without the proper preparations, which would explain the shredded clothing. But no, there were no energies from any other part of the world here. Whatever spell had been cast, its power remained purely here.

"Open it!" He commanded Baerne, not even looking to his creation. The construct lurched forward, massive 'hand' wrenching the door of the cage from its hinges.

Hanmarvyn stepped inside, reaching out with all of his senses, tasting the remnants of the spell. Waves of energy still washed through the tower, hard to distinguish against the backdrop of his own work. They moved and danced in strange patterns. Some kind of transformation magic, he concluded. On the floor of the cage, a tiny item glowed in his third eye, the energy of the spell anchored to it. A small figurine, a crude representation of a human. The old mage stepped forward for a closer look.

He was so occupied with his examination, the mage barely noticed the predatory gaze upon him until it was too late. A shape swooped down from one of the upper corners of the cage, a bundle of grey feathers, beating wings and sharp talons. The owl that had once been Philippa screeched a vicious cry as she slashed and pecked at Hanmarvyn's face, the mage crying out in surprise as wicked claws sliced through skin. Blood, thick, cold and black, seeped from the wounds, no heart beating to cause it to flow any more quickly. The curved beak plunged down, popping one glassy eyeball, while the claws claimed the other. Hanmarvyn let loose a furious bellow as he swiped wildly at his attacker. Philippa beat her wings furiously, looping around his swinging fists and slipping past the enraged magus. She dipped and twisted through the air, narrowly dodging Baerne's huge frame as she flew from the cage, free at last.

Behind her, Hanmarvyn let out another furious cry, shouting commands to Baerne, who quickly turned to follow the ducking and diving owl. With a swift twist of her new body, the sorceress swooped down the stairwell.

In moments, she was in Hanmarvyn's laboratory, beating her wings furiously as she wove between bookshelves and complex equipment. Baerne quickly followed her, thundering down the stairs with all the might and rage of an avalanche.

Inside the owl's skull, Philippa considered her options carefully. Her current form had helped her escape, but would be almost useless against the mass of wood, stone and bone that had once been the baron's son. She couldn't change back, not without destroying the poppet that she had created, and her wings and talons would not allow her the dexterity needed for most of her spellcasting. Aside from which, she was still quite weak. Hanmarvyn's devices, in particular the large apparatus in the centre of the laboratory, were still sapping her power, using it to fuel the crazed magus' work.

His work. The round, inhumanly sharp eyes of the owl locked onto the pillar of silver and gemstones in the centre of the laboratory. That was the key, she realised. It had to be. Ever since she had first touched it, the device had been slowly draining her vital force, feeding off her. Now those energies fed back into the mad mage's work, into Baerne, and into the magus himself, sustaining all of them.

The sorceress' thoughts were interrupted as Baerne, with incredible speed, lunged at her, the owl hard pressed to keep herself beyond his reach. She flitted over the top of a tall bookshelf, the construct smashing the weathered oak as though it were merely straw. Papers and the remnants of countless old tomes flittered everywhere, scattered before the behemoth's wrath. The construct lunged again, Philippa only just staying out of his grasp. Glass shattered as he struck one of the collections of specimen jars, the stench of preservation fluid and cold flesh filling the air.

As she continued to dodge Baerne's attacks, Philippa became aware of Hanmarvyn, cautiously feeling his way down the steps from the upper room. His sour, decaying blood washed across his features, weeping from his ruined eyes. He bared his teeth as he turned towards the two combatants, the hatred seething within him palpable on the air.

"Damn you, Eilhart!" He spat, venom on every syllable. "I'm blind, but that's of no matter. When I get my hands on you, I will restore my sight by plucking out your eyes and taking them for myself!"

Magic flared around his hands as he began to chant, a blast of energy lashing out towards the owl. Philippa narrowly dodged the attack, but could feel the thickness in the air, the sudden weight that was tugging at her. Some kind of aura designed to slow her down. She didn't have much time. In her current state, the mage far outmatched her.

Her eyes returned to the pillar in the centre of the lab. Its many silver branches, red gems hanging from them like juicy, ripe fruits. She could still see the one she had touched, glowing with a bright inner light. Suddenly, she knew what she needed to do.

The owl wheeled around, swooping through the air dangerously close to the head of the construct. Baerne lashed out at her, but was just a hair too slow. He turned, following her as the sorceress circled around him a few more times, always keeping just ahead of the lumbering monster. Then, with lightning speed, the owl darted towards the pillar, eyes fixed squarely on the brightest, reddest gemstone. Her claws stretched out in front of her, making to grab the gem. Baerne surged after her, swinging his massive fists as a roar rippled out from somewhere deep within his mass. Somewhere close by, Hanmarvyn let out a cry of consternation, his blindness slowing him just enough to keep the mage from preventing what was about to happen.

At the last moment, Philippa swerved, threading her way through the forest of silver branches with barely any room to spare. She curved around the thick trunk of the device gracefully, narrowly dodging aside as the full weight of Baerne collided with the structure. As the full weight of the construct collided with the strange device, a network of fractures split the silver surface.

All was silent for a single heartbeat, and then a sound that was something akin to the end of the world tore through the laboratory. The cracks in the pillar glowed with painfully bright white light, sparks of energy tearing loose from within. There was a sensation of things being pulled inwards, almost as if the device were drawing a final, chaotic breath, and then a mighty explosion ripped through the tower. Fire and wild energy washed across every surface as a massive blast of concussive force surged outwards. Splinters of silver peppered the walls of the tower as the untamed energies pummelled the ancient stonework. Outside the tower, the remote clifftop was bathed in light as, with dreadful finality, the top half of the spire disintegrated, pieces of stonework raining down on the surrounding land for some miles around.

Silence, pierced only by the crackle of guttering flames and the rumbling echoes of the almighty thunderclap, fell across what remained of the laboratory, now utterly exposed to the elements. Cold winds whipped at what remained of Hanmarvyn's residence.

Rising from one of the pyres that burned in the remains of the laboratory, Philippa stood to her full height. In one hand, the remnants of the poppet burned in a blue-white flame, swiftly turning to ash. She clenched her fist, destroying the trinket and fully releasing the spellwork within. In her other hand, the gemstone that she had first touched on the silver pillar now glowed a little less brightly. She could feel its influence fading, her full abilities returning to her in moments. She dropped the gem, allowing it to shatter on the scorched stonework at her feet.

Slowly, the sorceress stepped out of the flames. Her dress, left behind in her cage, was now nothing more than ash, but it mattered not. A simple flexing of her will called the fire to her, coating her bare flesh in a shimmering gown of living flame as she stalked through the ruins of Hanmarvyn's life's work. Her icy blue eyes flashed dangerously as she surveyed the wreckage, soon spotting what remained of her foe.

The rogue mage lay in the ruins of what had once been a large table, feeling the flinders of wood and fragments of silver that pierced his dead flesh. One of his legs had snapped in half, and half of his ribcage was pressed inwards. It would take time to repair the damage, even with his abilities.

The looming shape of Baerne rose from the wreckage, turning towards Philippa. It took a few uncertain steps in her direction, then paused, glancing to Hanmarvyn.

"Master…?" The voice within the construct was hollow, muted, almost as if coming from a great distance away.

The construct took another step, and then glanced down as a few bricks began to drop from its body. Slowly, more and more of the hulking frame dropped away, stone and wood clattering to the scorched floor. Hanmarvyn's creation managed one last look to its maker before, with a sound that was almost like a sigh, it disintegrated. As the last of the detritus fell away, a single human skull tumbled loose from the wreckage, rolling a few paces away before it rocked to a halt on the blackened stonework at Philippa's feet.

Through her mind's eye, Philippa felt the spirit that had been bound within the construct flit away, lost on the night winds like a wisp of smoke. She may have imagined it, but she almost believes that she heard a joyful cry echo after it, the sound of a tormented soul relieved.

A ragged growl from Hanmarvyn drew her eye back towards the rogue mage. He cursed, forcing himself into a sitting position as he continued to spit bile at the young sorceress.

"Damn you!" He muttered. "All my work, ruined! You've made a big mistake."

"It can't be anywhere near as big as the mistakes you made." Philippa looked down on him with a haughty gaze. She began to pace towards him, a slow, predatory stalking. "You toyed with forces far beyond your ability to control and turned yourself into a monster as part of some insane experiment. You defied the will of the Council and have done things that will turn every mage and sorceress between here and Zerrikania against you. But stupidest of all, you tried to play me for a fool, thought you could get the better of me. Now that, I cannot allow to stand."

She knelt next to the ruined body of the mage. She could already feel the energy beginning to leave him. Without his equipment, his spirit was losing its tether on the physical world. Philippa reached up to touch the dead mage's face, turning his blind gaze towards her. Her eyes burned with icy blue light. In that moment, for the first time in his existence, Hanmarvyn felt afraid.

Philippa leaned in close, her ruby-red lips almost touching his ear as she whispered. Even with her voice, low, the deadly venom in her words turned his soul to ice.

"Your biggest mistake was trying to keep me caged like a pet. Philippa Eilhart is nobody's prisoner!"

The wind howled across the tower, only matched by the screams of the dead magus. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the screams faded, and silence returned to the ruined tower.

~o~0~o~

The tavern buzzed with activity, the bards on the stage drawing in quite a crowd. As night fell outside, the mirth and merriment inside only grew warmer.

Boggevrieg was a small town, a convenient resting place on the road north, and an ideal place to gather information on the goings-on of the surrounding countryside. It was for this reason that Deldan had chosen to spend the night there, eager to find out what kinds of hearsay and rumour he might uncover.

The news of the discovery of the tower of the magus known as Brellismere Hanmarvyn had caused quite a stir in the magical community. The council had already sent out over a dozen agents to investigate the magical disturbance that had been detected, Deldan the first among them. Ever the eager student, he had been swift in coming north, spearheading the efforts to reach the tower and uncover any secrets that might be held within. Now, less than a day's ride away, he could almost taste the knowledge to be found there. A tremor of excitement shook through him.

The man he sat with was a weathered old farmer, his shoulders broad from years of hard toil, his hands scarred and rough from many a day in the field. He slurped down the last of his ale, wiping the flecks of foam from his whiskers, before he continued his tale.

"Aye, a strange 'un, that. Nobody rightly remembers when the tower appeared, or of anyone goin' up to it, but we all get a bad feelin' when we try to approach it. Like somethin' crawlin' under the skin. Even the birds don't like to fly o'erhead, always take a big loop around it." He grunted, shifting a lump of phlegm in his throat. "I mind the night o' the explosion, 'twas said that it was 'eard o'er a league away. Some folk 'ad stones fallin' on their 'ouses. Ole Feln lost 'is prize bull when a dirty great chunk o' gargoyle fell outta the sky an' brained it, right in front o' him."

"So nobody went up to the tower to investigate?" Deldan's eyes flashed. If nobody had been there, picking over the wreckage…

"Nay." The farmer shook his head. "A few o' us tried, but there was some kind o' phantom hauntin' the tower. It attacked us, chased us away. After that, none o' us wanted to risk goin' back again."

"A phantom?" Deldan leaned forward. "Do you know what kind?"

"Can't say fer sure." The farmer shrugged. "I'm sure a Witchman or one o' those learned men from Vizima could say more than I would know. All's I remember is the weeping black holes where its eyes shoulda been, an' the chains around its wrists. It was flittin' around the tower, moaning somethin' awful. Kept beggin' to be 'set free', askin' us to forgive it. But the moment we'd try an' step close to the tower, it'd attack. Strangest thing..."

"How curious..." Deldan stroked his chin. His eyes flashed, a hunger for understanding burning deep within. He offered a smile. "Thank you, my friend. This was all very helpful. Perhaps I can get you another ale…?"

Outside, the night continued to grow ever darker, the chill winds whistling across the land. Somewhere close by, talons grasped at a small scroll case, while grey wings beat soundlessly at the air.


End file.
